


Lavender's Green.

by anniesburg



Category: Bright (2017)
Genre: Canon violence mention, Eventual Romance, F/M, Flower shop cliche, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, orcs with issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-05 17:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14049201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: Florists don't always make for good therapists, sometimes they make for wonderful girlfriends.





	1. The Green Man

**Author's Note:**

> this came out of nowhere and punched me in the face. is this another one shot series??? probably.

He looks four different kinds of breakable, looking over the lavender plants with some distant remorse you don’t know the source of. Nick’s good people, a sweet guy who tries so hard not to look as scary as he could be. People still jump out of his way, he pretends he doesn’t notice.

You lean against the wall opposite to the counter, watching him without really knowing why. That orc couldn’t hide a bad feeling if you paid him to, you just wonder if he knows that and if he’d mind you asking why.

He hovered around the shop for a month before coming in, probably assessing whether or not he should buy fertilizer when he already composts. You were changing the hanging displays, standing on a short ladder and on a whim you waved at him. 

Two weeks later he became as much of a regular as someone can at a flower shop, buying the things you made in-store when it was beyond obvious he didn’t need to. Nick took you by surprise, would never have thought him to be the gardening type. You are determined not to be surprised by him again.

 _Could be the sick tomato plant_ , you think as you turn the page in your book. The owner would bite your head off for reading on the job, but Nick’s gone on the record to say he doesn’t mind. You like when he’s the only one in the store, it makes for good conversation. Well, it usually does. 

He isn’t sulking per se, human and orc emotional responses aren’t exactly in synch. Instead, he seems more fragile than you’ve ever known him to be. Something happened that has nothing to do with plants. It’s none of your business, you just know it but you find yourself speaking anyway.

“Nicky, hey.” you say, your voice a bit more careful than it usually is. You put your book down, moving away from the wall and towards the counter. He looks up from the flowers that you know would barely fit in his vegetable garden. 

“Yeah?” he asks, clearing his throat before replying. 

“You look a little—” you pause, trying to find the word that will convey your potential understanding. “distraught.” you finally decide. Leaning a bit towards him, you tilt your head to the side. 

“Dis— oh, _oh_ —” he seems to snap back to some form of reality, his expression rising to the lighter side of neutral. _At least he tries_ , you think. “It’s nothing.” 

“I only ask because I care,” you reply, keeping your tone as inconsequential as you can. _This isn’t a serious conversation_ , you hope to say without saying. _You can open up_. “and you won’t find a therapist who charges three dollars for a pot of lavender anywhere else.”

Your attempt at a joke lands better than you expect, Nick offers up a smile. It’s a little pained around the edges, though. Goodness, something terrible must have happened. You step around the counter, hoping that closing the distance might wake up some desire to share in him. He doesn’t question why you care, at least. You’re not sure you’re ready with an answer to that. 

“I guess not.” he says, his hand goes to the back of his neck. You brush your hair behind your head and clasp your hands together in front of you as if to tell him,  _I’m listening_. “it’s kinda— _police_ business. You know—” 

“Top secret?” you supply and he nods. 

“Yeah, that it. It’s nothing—” he repeats but cuts himself off this time, like he can’t bring himself to lie and say it’s nothing serious. He drops his eyes, unable to make eye contact when conversations go somewhere he’s uncomfortable with.

“Nick?” you ask and to your surprise, he looks up at you again. His eyes are the strangest you’ve ever seen. Yellow eyes, you know what they say about yellow eyes. They look like snake eyes, your mother told you. Nick doesn’t look like a snake, he looks like he’s ripping himself apart. “You don’t have to tell me a thing, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 

“You know—” he begins again before cutting himself off. You wait, patient like a night walk to see if he’ll finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you hesitate before speaking. 

“Like I said, you don’t have to say a word about it. I just— can you tell me if you have someone else you can talk to? Can you promise me you’ll talk to them?” he makes a noise that could be a laugh and you realize he’s not making eye contact. He’s staring at the wall behind you, his neutral expression falling fast.

“I, uh, can’t do that, ma’am.” your heart sinks and you get the feeling this is the first honest thing he’s said to you after hello when he came in. “I— my partner, he—” 

The fragmented sentences change the slow sinking in your chest to once of icy panic. 

“Oh no, what happened?” his distant gaze is suddenly pulled back to yours, his eyes widening in a look of distress. He shakes his head.   
  
“He’s not dead.” Nick blurts out, almost as if he doesn’t mean to. Almost as if your distressed look upset him worse. “He just, uh, he was injured in the line of duty.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“That’s terrible, Nicky,” you say, your voice laced with concern. Politeness dictates you ask after his partner’s health first, although you’re nearly more worried about how the orc in front of you is doing. “is he going to be all right?” 

Nick nods, his face shifting to something like relief. How long has he been holding that in? If he really doesn’t have anyone to talk to, you shudder to think. 

“He’s not comatose or anything, they say he’ll make a full recovery.” a sympathetic smile tugs at your mouth. Without thinking, you reach out and put your hand on his arm, just about his elbow.

“Oh, that’s good. That’s really good.” his eyes drop to your hand only for a second before he’s nodding again. “And you? How are you holding up?” he looks like no one’s asked him that yet. Your heart twists in your chest and you give his arm a squeeze. 

“It’s been rough, they prepare you for it but it’s,” he hesitates again, his sentences still fragments of sewn-together guilt. “it’s rough.” he finishes, his voice flat. You pat his arm.

“This must be so hard on you, I’m so sorry.” he shrugs at that and you lift your hand. He seems to mourn the loss of the contact at least, looking at you as if he wants to ask you something. He stays quiet. “Trust the doctors, Nicky. If they say he’s going to be all right then he probably will be. _Everything is going to be okay_.” 

Your repetition seems to stir something in him, a newfound confidence. He steps closer to you, eyes still sad but there’s something else there now. An understanding’s been forged, a bridge.

“I hear people say that all the time, every single day. It’s going to be okay,” you freeze inside, a look of questioning fear on your face. He’s quick to snuff it out. “but the way you say it, like you really believe it, I can’t help but believe it too.” 

You blush, colour tinging your cheeks and your eyes drop this time. There’s an awkward touch to the air you were hoping to avoid but his kindness is appreciated nevertheless.

“That’s very sweet of you, and I’m glad that I can help— even just a little bit.” you inhale more sharply than you intend to, glancing back up and seeing him still watching the way your expression morphs. 

“It’s nice,” he begins, as if struggling to find the proper fit for what he’s thinking. “I didn’t think talking about it would help.” he says and you nod a bit. 

“Sometimes there are burdens you carry alone,” you say. Reaching out again, your aim is lower and your fingers brush his knuckles. “and sometimes you need to halve the emotional weight. I’m always here for that.” 

“The worry’s keeping me up at night.” he blurts out, the guarded wall between you and him giving way just slightly. Trust will be built on its foundation. You wrap your hand around his. 

“That’s usually when it’s time to let it out, Nicky. I’m glad you told me. If there’s anything other than talking that I can do to help—” he cuts you off with a determined shake of his head.

It’s as if he wakes from a dream, sinking back into that officer quietness. You’re a civilian all at once again and his hand retracts from yours. Furrowing your brow, you glance up at him. You let out a nearly inaudible sigh, there’s something else he isn’t telling you. 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. You tilt your head and his expression softens. “but thank you for listening.” 

The conversation is over, you realize and you give him a shrug. 

“Any time. I mean that.” he nods again, as if considering something. He stays silent, however, and turns to leave. 

“Actually,” he begins, turning back to you. You brighten without meaning to. “is the lavender really only three bucks? That’s a steal and I—” he looks towards the shelf where they sit. “I’ve been meaning to start growing flowers.” 


	2. Hopeful Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i had a lot of fun writing the first chapter so here's something vaguely post-movie.

When did he become a pressure point? A name to look out for? When did he become someone who could put pain in your heart at the thought of him in trouble? 

You stare at the television screen, your holistic and human eyes still able to make tiny pixels out of the larger image. The solid picture blurs and you feel tears stinging the back of your eyes. 

_Nick isn’t good people_ , you’ve already realized this. _He’s the best people, everything is going to be okay_. If you had any belief in that you’d say it out loud, instead you watch a building burn.

What is the LAPD going to do about this? Will you be force-fed a story painting your _friend_ as someone to never have trusted? A vicious mistake, a mark on the otherwise clean record of the police force? A wave of nausea hits you hard enough to break bone. 

You stand and fumble with the remote but can’t bring yourself to turn the television off. Nobody knows what’s happening, not you, not the reports and possibly not even Nick. He was so excited for this, his first day back with his new partner.

* * *

 

His smile lit up the room and all the flowers in your shop made space for him. You were perched on the counter, pricing tulip bulbs and sealing them in warm soil for their spring awakening. You looked up and he was there, hopeful and careless.

“They release him on Monday.” he said, excitement in his tone. He didn’t have to clarify, you knew he was talking about Ward. You’d never met the man that Nick was tasked with keeping safe, a sneaking suspicion in the back of your mind that your friend was trying to keep work and personal matters separate. 

Only in your world as broken as yours could people exist in two spheres entirely independent of each other, juggling two half lives and calling it balance. Nicky struggles, you know he does but it seems rude to say. It isn’t as if he’s scrambling to confirm that the two of you are anything more. In fact, he seemed intent on keeping your relationship purely platonic.

“That’s good!” you replied, your beaming smile matching his. You clasped your hands together in front of you and would have hugged him if not for the pain it would have eventually brought you. You’ve come to regret every touch, every lingering look. Nick is the best man you’ve met, one of the only orcs you’ve met and it feels more and more every day like all you do is scare him. 

“Yeah, the accident got me off on the wrong foot with the rest of the department.” you smile faltered somewhat. You had your suspicions that his guilt was not unfounded, but his confirmation was nevertheless startling. He seemed to notice. “Now’s my chance to make it up to them, to Ward especially.”

You cut off your own surprise, locked concern behind your eyes and bit down _hard_ on your tongue. _They can’t really think it was you fault_ , you intended to say. Thank goodness you didn’t. It would’ve made him flounder, would have wrecked your fragile peace.

For there is peace between the two of you, a kinship that comes from meeting on even ground. You can always talk about flowers, even as politics pound on the door. 

One time you nudged him with your shoulder, the only gesture that felt right and safe, to show him something beautiful in your gardening magazine. He asked for the name so he could get a subscription. He showed you pictures of his home, of his vegetables and the budding flower area. He had your lavender in little pots, purple petals reaching towards the sun. You sighed in awe and he smiled despite himself. 

Your hands shake as you flick the button on your kettle. Having something hot to drink might calm your nerves that run like wild horses. If your body is a sprawling plane then anxious hooves push you into the dirt. It’s going to be a long, sleepless night. 

The freelance reporter on the news babbles about terrorism and gang wars, spouts what has to be lies about Nick and his partner. A permanent sickly feeling settles in your gut as you struggle to firmly grasp your favourite mug.

If you could just talk to him--- but he’s in intensive care. He could be dying and it tears at you. He could already be dead.

That does it, that makes something in your chest snap like a rib. A sharp pain in your heart causes an opening of flootgates, hot tears pour down your cheeks. You set the mug down and brace your hands on the counter. Sinking to your kitchen floor, you hug your knees to your chest. The sound from the television drowns out your sobs.

* * *

 

There’s still the remnants of pain in your crumbled insides when you hear a voice on the other end of the line. It’s Nick’s voice, not something pre-recorded but living, breathing him. He sounds like a man who’s swallowed lungfuls of air born poison, survived a tumble with too many. 

His cellphone, you understand, was likely lost in the monumental terror of the previous night. In a moment of sleepless panic, you tried the hospitals in the areas of the fire. If he’s gone you can’t wait until the details of that become public. Your stomach sinks as you think of flipping open a newspaper, turning the page to find an obituary of Nick Jakoby.  

The nurse sounded bored on the end of the phone, but your stuttering and defeated tone shook up her monotony just enough. She told you there was an orc named Jakoby, that he was conscious and under surveillance after being removed from intensive care. She sighed and said she had to ask permission if you wanted to speak to him. A pause, then a click. Then his voice saying hello. 

“Nicky?” you ask. The way he then asks your name brings familiar tears to you again. You refuse to cry, not now and certainly not when he’s incapable of comforting you. For now, the sound of his voice is enough. 

“It’s me.” he says, the understanding tone to his voice chasing away the confusion. If he knows how you feel, and you’re almost certain he does, then you’re sure he knows too that the sound of his voice is enough. You remember to breathe. “I’m all right,” he continues and you nearly thank him. “I made it, we’re both okay.” 

“I saw  some of the footage and---” you can just see the look on his face, the shame. Nobody knows what’s happened yet, no idea of the official story. Your shoulders sag and you relax into your couch.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, rushing as if expecting you to cut him off. You sit up a bit, back straight. Why does he think you’ve called him. “I can explain everything.”

“I was so afraid I’d never see you alive again.” you say, the tremor to your voice implying that the last thing you want to discuss is why he did what he did. He’s alive, he’s breathing and you can hear his voice in your ear. He doesn’t have to explain a thing. 

“Afraid?” he asks.

“Of course afraid!” you voice spikes with emotion, torn from your throat. “I thought you were dead or--- or dying--- or bleeding.” you gain some measure of control and exhale. You sound shaky, you are shaky. His silence worries you.

“You don’t want to know what happened?” he asks. 

“Not now,” you say, exhausted. “no, it’s not why I called. I just couldn’t--- I needed to make sure you were fine.” you tuck your feet up under you, shifting and rubbing at your eyes to get rid of the stinging sensation.

“Why?” oh, now he asks why. You choke back a laugh.

“Because I care, Nick. Haven’t I ever told you that?” there’s a change in his voice you didn’t anticipate, like the orc you knew before was asleep. He speaks less out of curiosity and more genuine sincerity. “I was so afraid.”

“Yes, you have,” he begins as if he understands something now. There’s a tight feeling in your stomach. Has he been questioning your feelings? You thought you made it rather obvious, the pet names and the touching. You like him. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” 

You really do laugh then, for the first time since he was in your shop. The sound seems to unsettle him, you hear him clear his throat on the other end of the line.

“You didn’t do anything, sunshine.” you say. You sound like you mean it. “Everything’s going to---” 

“Be okay.” he finishes, sounding a little less confused at the prospect. You care, you care for real and now he has proof. Your back hits the sofa with a dull thud. 

“Are you in a lot of pain?” you can’t help but ask, not quite sure what other question to pose and certainly not wanting to force him to discuss why he’s in the hospital in the first place. Nick makes a noise that’s decidedly negative.

“Ward’s in worse shape than I am. I--- uh---” he stalls then, going silent and you wonder if this is the best course of action after all. 

“Don’t worry about it, Nick.” you pipe up, forcing a happier tone into your voice. He accepts it. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time. Actually, I was wondering---” now it’s your turn to stall, absent-mindedly biting the inside of your cheek as you struggle with the words.

“Ask away,” he says, his voice brightens as you hoped it would. “I don’t think they’re going to keep me here for much longer,” it’s as if he senses your question. “so if it’s a visit you want, I’ll be in good enough shape to come see you at the shop on Thursday. Maybe even Wednesday.” there’s less of a strain for positivity in your tone now.

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “I was planning to ask about a visit. I just---”

“You care.” he says, there’s a warmth to his voice that could bring a blush to your cheeks. 

“Exactly.” you sigh. “I do. So I’ll see you when you have time this week? I’m just so glad you’re not hurt too badly.” he grunts.

“Believe me, I am too.” his laugh is soft and brief, like the promise of spring in February wind. He’s trying to make you happy, you realize. He’s trying not to worry you again. 

“You should get some rest, then. You have healing to do.” Nick makes a noise of agreement and you hear the crunch of hospital linens as he sits back. “Get some sleep.”

“I think I will. Thank you for calling. Thank you for--- you know.” you do know.

“Sweet dreams, Nicky. I’ll see you soon.” you hang up and set your phone down beside you. You feel a little numb, sitting in your cold kitchen. You shiver.


End file.
